


Zayn Malik

by uselessgaydolphin



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bad Poetry, English Student Zayn Malik, Liam is a dreamboat, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:28:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25644325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uselessgaydolphin/pseuds/uselessgaydolphin
Summary: This is a poem based on the idea of Z in my mind after spending hours on here reading about literature major Malik burning his lips on ciggarettes and letting his walls crumble for a chocolate-eyed boy named Liam.
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Zayn Malik

the one wall wall beside my bed and right across my window has been left bare in all its whitewashed glory;  
the movies I have watched and my mother, both, have told me that the crazies end up in rooms where the lonely shadow dances are their only company.  
and, with the monsters chained under my bed, I don't see why I deserve a discounted situation.  
Paris should have carried Helen into my mind because no walls go higher than the ones around it,  
(or maybe I only led him on into believing he could tear them down)  
I have won every battle faster than Quicksilver ran  
and saved myself from bullets of emotions and confessions  
(they graze my limbs while they whizz past, sometimes,  
but I am too far gone to care)  
I fill my days with people  
and the nights with an alcohol induced haze-  
so that something echoes along the dimly lit hallways I always come back to-  
something loud enough to drown the voices coming from places within me I had learned to forget.  
I bring back people to warm my bed,  
for them to pour their hearts into the spaces between my fingers for a while  
(hoping that the void between each bone of my ribcage would not suffocate me that night)  
and like clockwork,  
I am out of beds, lighting cigarettes-  
hoping it is enough hint to let them know visiting hours are over.  
but, mostly I want to avoid the look in their eyes  
of anger, disappointment, curiosity or pity  
always with the fucking pity, expecting that I would like to be saved  
(I am Iron Man, I'll save the world to justify leaving my Peppers alone)  
but, fuck DC  
fuck them for making every superman have his kryptonite  
and every wall having one brick missing.  
to hell with poets who let their work have stories and muses  
except just being words.  
"sylvia plath was cold and just wanted feel something",  
you had decided in that beat down cafe—  
two blocks from home  
and hundreds of miles away from the vacuum—  
while looking at people trying to mask their emptiness by slotting their hands with each other's  
and choosing the wrong crevices to fill again.  
I remember thinking you were an idiot who didn't get the metaphorical relevance of acts  
but, I looked at your christmas morning face, wearing a pastel paisley shirt,  
when the goddamn jukebox chose to play 'the crystal ship'  
and I had decided the oven would probably be a cooler place for my head to be in  
realising why Icarus flew so close to the sun when he knew his fall was inevitable.


End file.
